


Flashover

by katwalking



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 08:57:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15659952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katwalking/pseuds/katwalking
Summary: The 2017-2018 NHL season is a season of change and Kris is just trying to deal.





	Flashover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [downjune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/downjune/gifts).



> I had a great time participating and I hope my recipient and others enjoy my efforts.
> 
> Pairing: Kris Letang/Matt Murray
> 
> Prompt: flashover  
> n. the moment a conversation becomes real and alive, which occurs when a spark of trust shorts out the delicate circuits you keep insulated under layers of irony, momentarily grounding the static emotional charge you’ve built up through decades of friction with the world.

Kris forgets Matt is fluent in French all the time. It’s stupid because Kris is sure he teased Matt about his accent after a media scrum in Montreal his rookie season. He remembers the flush on Matt’s high cheekbones and the way his dark lashes shaded his blue eyes. Still, Kris manages to forget again and again until Sid cuts him off mid rant, voice sharp. “Kris.”

“ _What?_ ” Kris says, indignant. The too loud sounds of disgusted teammates carelessly chucking equipment surround them and to Kris it sounds like agreement. They wouldn’t be in this position if Flower was still here and Sid knows it. Kris certainly knows. Geno, currently muttering darkly to himself across the room, knows it. Kris doesn’t know why Sid is being prickly with him until Sid tips his head delicately in Matt’s direction. 

Kris forgets Matt is fluent in French until he remembers.

**

The Pens locker room has always been home to more than its fair share of French-Canadians. Flower used to say Sid required a certain number for his comfort. Kris takes it for granted, used to speaking and being understood. Careless with his inside jokes and salacious comments. It’s just the people who’ve understood him in the past have all been his. 

Shame is only a passing acquaintance to Kris, but he feels chastised when he looks at the curve of Matt’s shoulders, the bend of his neck. The year has been hard on Matt, on and off the ice, and Kris has not been sympathetic. Caught up in his own feelings about the changes in the locker room without much consideration for anything else. 

**

“I understand,” Matt says in English, narrow face expressionless. Kris wonders if it’s deliberate. Matt refusing to speak French to him. “I’m not Flower and you miss him. Everyone misses him.” Matt’s thin lips press together tightly.

“Regardless,” Kris says, “I’m sorry.” There’s no need to be rude. Matt’s trying his best. Matt’s best delivered them two Stanley Cups. Kris hopes the way Matt’s been playing lately is his worst and not a new normal without Flower to back him up.

Matt tips his chin up, acknowledging Kris, but not absolving him. 

It’ll have to do.

**

When they’re on the round, some of the older guys like to hang out in Kris’s room, maybe watch some of the late games. Tonight, it’s only Sid. Geno begging off to talk to his wife. He’s probably having raw phone sex Kris thinks wistfully. 

On the television, Vegas is playing San Jose and Flower is doing so well in Vegas. He’s been absolute money since returning from his concussion. It hurts to watch him from afar, but Kris is happy for him. They’d all been worried about Flower going to die in the desert, playing out the rest of his years in futility. Seems they were all wrong.

“I knew he would be okay,” Sid says, smug, and Kris throws a pillow at him. Sid catches it, giggling. He stays slumped over on his side, eyes focused on the screen. “I’m glad you talked with Matty.”

Kris grunts. He doesn’t want to think about Matt while Flower’s making save after ridiculous save.

**

Matt Murray is a problem. Oh, he isn’t doing anything to Kris. Mostly he looks right through him. 

“ _What’s up with you and Matty?_ ” Brassard asks not even two weeks after he arrives. Brass slipped seamlessly into the open French-Canadian slots left by Duper, Perron, Flower. A little piece of home in Pittsburgh.

“ _Nothing_ ,” Kris says. He hasn’t said a single mean thing within Matt’s earshot in weeks. 

“ _It’s important to love your goalie_ ,” Brass says as if he knows anything about Kris and goalies. 

Kris raises his eyebrows, “ _Way to make yourself at home, jerk_.”

Brass laughs. “ _You have to be gentle with goalies, especially young ones_.”

Matt would probably bite Kris’s head off if he tried to be gentle with him. Kris shakes his head at the image. 

**

Matt is a back-to-back Stanley Cup winning goalie. Anyone would be hard pressed to remember he’s only be in the NHL for one and a half seasons. He’s an essential part of the team, a de facto part of the core with Flower gone. Weird.

They lose to the Washington Capitals in the second round and everyone is confused more than anything. The mood is sad, strange. Half the team has never lost a playoff series in their NHL career. Kris wants to laugh at how ridiculous it all is. They’re so spoiled. 

Coach gives his speech and Kris lets the words wash over him, the tone more soothing than the words.  
Matt’s staring off into the distance, gaze unfocused. It’s the first series Matt’s ever lost. 

All in all, a shitty year.

**

Flower loses in the Finals and Kris doesn’t know how to feel. He settles on guiltily relieved.

The summer is slow. No Cup days to crash, a few weddings. He bumps into Matt here and there. They’re friendly. Mostly. Matt looks good, rested. The sun has been good to him, skin golden against the darkness of his hair, his beard. Kris has been keeping tabs on him through his social media, looking at his posts maybe a little longer, a little closer than necessary. 

Rusty raises his eyebrows when Kris settles into a chair beside him and across from Matt. Aside from a quick glance at Matt, he’s welcoming. Matt stays quiet, watchful, spider fingers wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. 

“ _No words for me?_ ” Kris asks in French and Matt’s mouth tightens.

“Don’t be rude,” Matt says. English, always English. 

Rusty makes a clicking sound deep in his throat. “Your dogs are getting big,” Kris says and Rusty says, “They’re fucking monsters.” Rusty’s been a frequent costar on Matt’s Instagram. Kris doubts they’re fucking; Matt would wreck Rusty.

Matt takes a sip of his wine and says, “They’re sweethearts, yeah,” as if he’s unable to talk about his giant dog babies even to snub Kris. 

Kris makes small talk about Matt’s dog, his boat until Sid walks by, flushed and happy, and grabs him by the arm. 

**

Dumo gets married and most of the team is in attendance. Sid, Chris and Ian and most of the young guys. Kris is there. Matt is there.

“Dumo’s pretty young, don’t you think?” Kris says and Matt gives him a look. Probably wondering why Kris keeps cornering him at weddings. Kris hopes Matt figures it out, because he doesn't have the answer. 

Matt shifts his weight. No one is paying attention to them standing in the shadows around the dance floor. Dumo and Kayla are at the center of the crowd, spotlight competing with their beaming faces. “They’ve known each other a long time. Dumo knows what he wants.”

It’s taken awhile, but Kris finally knows what he wants. “Are you planning to dislike me forever?” He asks and Matt glares at him. 

“That’s a funny question coming from you,” Matt says. 

Kris shrugs, shoulders loose. “I’m over it,” and he is, “Things change, teams, people.” Also, Flower signed an expensive contract with Vegas. He isn’t coming back and Kris understands now, the team couldn’t keep them both. “It was never really about you.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” Matt asks, incredulous.

“Do you feel bad?” Kris counters, “Because I-“

“Look-,” Matt interrupts and Kris reaches out to grab his wrist, the fine bones shifting slightly in his grip. Matt’s mouth snaps shut. 

“Because I would love to make you feel better.” Kris rubs his thumb over the fine skin of Matt’s inner wrist. Matt looks arrested, bird chest rising and falling under his smart vest. Kris steps in closer and Matt tenses. “I could make it up to you somewhere quieter.” 

**

“Fuck,” Matt says as Kris struggles with the buttons on his black slacks. “You’re going to rip them.”

Kris grunts. “ _Why are they so fucking tight?_ ” French trips off his tongue, translating into English too much trouble with so much of his blood between his legs. “ _There._ ” Kris wiggles his hand into Matt’s boxer briefs and grabs his dick. “ _Well, hello, big boy._ ”

“Shut up,” Matt hisses. His hips are moving, humping up into Kris’s grip. Kris laughs.

“ _All those lower body injuries make so much sense now._ ” Matt squirms against him and Kris wishes he could see him better. That they were doing this in a room with lights, a soft bed, instead of this cramped, out of the way storage room while their friends dance the night away. “ _I’m going to suck your dick_ ,” Kris says.

“What?” Matt gasps, but he doesn’t stop Kris from getting on his knees. 

The floor better be fucking clean. Kris takes the head of Matt’s dick into his mouth and sucks briefly. Matt jerks up and Kris rides the movement. He licks along the slit aggressively and Matt whines, large hand settling on Kris’s head, fingers clenching into his hair destroying the carefully careless style. “ _Talk to me_ ,” Kris demands and Matt bites his bottom lip.

Stubborn. Kris closes his eyes and concentrates on the feel of Matt heavy against his tongue. Fucking guys isn’t an all the time thing for Kris, but not unusual either. He’s good at it, because he takes pride in his work on and off the ice. He’s careful, not as sloppy as he might be otherwise. They have to leave this closet at some point and offer well wishes for the future. 

“ _Fuck, so good_ ,” Matt gasps and Kris has a moment of absolute blankness, before groaning desperately. Matt pulls him closer, pressing deeper into his mouth. “ _Beautiful_.” Matt uses his grip on Kris’s hair to adjust the angle and fucks in – rudely, if Kris is truthful – trying to wedge the thick tip of his cock down Kris’s throat. Kris struggles, but doesn’t fight Matt’s grip. “ _Yes_ ,” Matt hisses, “ _at least, you’re useful for something_ ,” and Kris’s chest burns from more than lack of oxygen.

God, he’s been an idiot, distributing blame to everyone but himself. Fuck, thinking he was being the bigger person and putting - Matt’s - performance behind him. Kris didn’t even fucking play in the 2016-17 playoffs while Matt was backstopping the team to victory.

“ _Are you crying?_ ” Matt rubs his thumb gently across the thin skin beneath Kris’s eye. “ _Good_ ," he says, sweetly, and comes down Kris’s throat.

Kris stays on his knees, forehead pressed to Matt’s hip. Matt strokes his thin fingers through Kris’s hair and stays silent while Kris tries to put himself back together.

“Okay,” Kris says in English, “I was a jerk.”

Matt hums. “Yeah.” He helps Kris back to his feet and wipes at his wet face, pretends like he can tame Kris’s hair. Matt tips Kris’s chin up and meets his eyes, coolly assessing. “Do you feel better?”

Kris clears his throat. “Yeah, yeah, I think so.” He leans up to meet Matt’s mouth and feels calm.


End file.
